


On The Right Tracks

by d0g-bless (d0gbless)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Half-Japanese Shiro (Voltron), Japan, Japanese Culture, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13210422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d0gbless/pseuds/d0g-bless
Summary: If it weren’t for his height and build, Shiro sometimes thinks he could pass as full Japanese instead of haafu — half. Except when he’s reminded of his haafu heritage on his daily train commute. Occasionally, businessmen greet him in English. Though Shiro’s fluent in both English and Japanese, he replies in Japanese, the language that is his native tongue.That is far from the worst part. It’s their stares. He feels like a lab rat, subject to observations, spoken and unspoken. Pinned down to an operating table, sliced open for everyone’s invasive gazes, questions, and pokes and prods.The train slows to a stop.“Wait!” That English exclamation is like a magnet, drawing commuters’ attentions away from Shiro and toward the speaker. Like a piece of iron, Shiro is no exception. He, too, is drawn to her.





	On The Right Tracks

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to the shidge fanzine.

Standing at 193 centimeters, Shiro towers over his Japanese peers. He attributes his height to his father, a tall, broad-shouldered white American. Everything else is from his mother, a Tokyo native.

If it weren’t for his height and build, Shiro could pass as full Japanese instead of  _ haafu _ —half. Or he thinks he does. Except when he’s reminded of his  _ haafu _ heritage on his daily commute.

The soft Japanese chatters of a few cease when he boards the subway. Occasionally, businessmen greet him in English. Though Shiro’s fluent in both English and Japanese, he replies in Japanese, the language he considers (no,  _ is _ ) his native tongue.

That is far from the worst part. It’s their stares. He should be used to it now, he knows. He feels like a lab rat, subject to observations, spoken and unspoken. Pinned down to an operating table, sliced open for everyone’s invasive gazes, questions, and pokes and prods. Granted, everyone is touching someone during the rush hour commute. It’s tighter than a can of sardines. Shiro envies the aluminum cylinder-encased fish.

The train slows to a stop. Its doors open, allowing waves of people to flood in and out. The boarding process feels like clockwork: If ten people leave, another ten or eleven take their spots.

“Wait!” That English exclamation is like a magnet, drawing commuters’ attentions away from Shiro and toward the speaker. Like a piece of iron, Shiro is no exception.

The bespectacled girl who cried wait stands directly across from him. Impressive, considering she had to slip through a number of tight spots. If her pristine English hadn’t informed him already, it’s clear she’s not Japanese. Her sandy hair, freckles, and golden eyes alert everyone to this fact. She’s a tiny beacon of foreignness. Sure, he’s taller than most people on this train (in Japan), but compared to them? She’s a dwarf, and he’s a giant.

Shiro furrows his brows. Why would a teenager be boarding a train during rush hour?—but then he notes she’s not dressed in a uniform. No sailor skirt or knee-high socks. She wears black dress slacks and a mint green blouse. An ID card hangs from her neck. Shiro squints to read the characters on the card: “Altea Tech.”

Ah. A foreigner on a business trip. That explains it.

A few beeps warn of closing doors. Passengers reach for the ceiling and cling to ring-shaped handles. Pavlovian dogs, all of them. Classically conditioned to avoid bodily harm with annoying noises.

It seems one dog hasn’t been trained yet: the foreigner. She’s slipped on a pair of headphones, techno music blasting loudly enough for all to hear. People’s faces twist as if they’d bitten a lemon. Uncomfortable coughs echo throughout the car. Even Shiro can’t help but roll his eyes. He hopes his father wasn’t this obnoxious.

The train hurtles out of the station with a force powerful enough to shake the foreigner off her feet and stumble into another passenger. A balding, middle-aged businessman glares at her.

Shiro’s never seen anyone turn as red as she does. She manages an apologetic, stuttered “ _ sumimasen _ .” Excuse me.

He can’t help but feel a little bad for her. Maybe a little embarrassed, but she shouldn’t have been playing music over the warning bell. So not too bad.

All eyes are glued to her. It takes Shiro a couple minutes to realize no one’s looking at him. Never has he experienced such relief before.

* * *

That sense of relief evaporates when the foreigner leaves for her stop. As soon as the train starts moving, all eyes slide back toward him. The train and Shiro’s stomach lurch violently.

Disgusted, Shiro lowers his head.  _ I’m no better than them. _ Sure, he didn’t snicker, but he didn’t make the situation any better. He sat there and did nothing. His fists clench.

And for that, there’s no excuse. At the very least, she deserves an apology, a coffee—something! She’s just some person on a business trip. What are the odds of encountering her a second time?

* * *

Those odds, as it turns out, were better than Shiro thought.

The second time he sees her is during his evening commute home. He hadn’t expected to see her a second time, let alone in the line before the subway. She’s a little different than before. She sports pit stains, dark circles under her eyes, and a Voltron Tech tote. That tote explains the absence of headphones and MP3 player. In those items’ stead, there’s a book tucked beneath her armpit: An English language edition of  _ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. _

His favorite book.

He punctuates each step he takes with a “ _ sumimasen _ .” A man of his stature can’t slip past people with ease.

But she can. She dodges passengers like she’s avoiding oncoming traffic in a game of  _ Frogger. _  The ducks, dives, and weaves cease when she finds a safe lilypad: a pole. She clings to it for dear life.

Where Shiro lacks stealth, he has strength. He tries to shove his way through the masses. But they’re too dense, too thick, to let him pass. Craning his neck for a better view, he sees that she’s dozed off.

She’s actually cute. Maybe it’s the flattering way her glasses frame her face. Or a few static-ridden strands of hair slipping out of her ponytail. Or maybe it’s how she cradles his favorite book close to her heart.

Shiro’s so entranced with her he almost doesn’t see a sleazy guy slither toward her. It takes him a few seconds to process the situation. He shouts, “Hey!” 

The young woman stirs. “What?” she grumbles.

The fact she’s awake doesn’t faze this guy, whose hand is centimeters away from groping her thighs.

She isn’t fazed at this, either. “Pervert!” With a swing of her tote, she cracks it against the jerk’s skull. Repeatedly. 

Gazes wrench toward her. Some people are amused at the sight; others, impressed. It’s not everyday they see a foreigner bludgeon a pervert with a small purse. 

The red-handed assailant slinks back to the doors. Once the train stops, that creep exits the train.

And so does she, tote-turned-weapon still swinging.

* * *

His mind tells him he won’t see her again.

His heart tells him to buy two drinks instead of one.

The next morning, Shiro waits for the train to arrive with two cans of coffee. One in each hand. Drinks are allowed on board as long as they’re sealed shut. It’s the act of drinking (and eating) on public transportation that’s frowned upon.

After what feels like hours of standing in line, Shiro’s finally on the train. He loops one arm around a pole.

Time slows to a standstill. Impatience is an itchy mosquito bite. Scratching at it only irritates it more. The prickly sensation worsens beneath Shiro’s skin. But he chooses to ignore it.

Shiro takes a deep breath.  _ Patience yields focus. _ And maybe, just maybe, it’ll yield another result.

Finally, the train arrives at where she boarded yesterday morning. Muscles stiffen, preparing for the impact of disappointment.

“ _ Sumimasen. _ ”

It’s her, inching her way along the sardines with equally stiff faces.

“Do you need this pole?” His English feels like molasses in his mouth: slow and sticky. He hasn’t spoken it in months. Not since he last visited his father’s side of the family for Christmas. (The holiday wasn’t the same without KFC.)

Judging by her wide-eyed expression, it was either very good English or the worse she’d ever heard. A blush creeps up from under his collar. He rubs the nape of his neck. “I-I’m Shirogane Takashi.” Wait. “Sorry—it’s Takashi Shirogane.”

She shakes her head. “Sorry, I was just surprised at the English.” (At this, he relaxes.) “I’m Katie, but everyone calls me Pidge.”

Shiro wonders if she has any idea how cute that name is. Or how she is. “About that, I, uh, saw you on the train yesterday. Twice.” He fumbles one of the bottles, nearly dropping it. “For you.”

She accepts his gift. Habitually bitten fingernails click away at the can’s tab.

“Don’t do that. It’s considered rude.” He waves his hand side to side in front of his face.

Pidge reddens. “I didn’t know.” Her brows furrow, then shoot up in recognition. “Wait, aren’t you that guy who shouted last night? When that creep tried to—well, you know.” Disgruntled, she bites her lip and looks away.

“Sorry if I woke you up.”

“Don’t be.” Pidge’s gaze meets his again. Her lips curl into a mischievous smile. “I owe you one.”

“A coffee date.” Shiro almost startles himself with his own answer. She doesn’t owe him a thing. The last thing he wants is to make her feel trapped. “O-only if you’d like that.”

Mischief flickers behind her eyes. “I’d  _ really _ like that.”

The two exchange email addresses with the simple press of a button on their cell phones. For the rest of the ride, they discuss  _ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy _ . Pidge rambles while Shiro smiles. They’re so into their conversation and one another, Pidge nearly misses the call for her stop.

Pidge waves goodbye with her canned coffee as she nears the doors. “It’s a date.”

Those three words make Shiro collapse internally. He’s lightheaded. His knees wobble, suddenly weak. He considers himself and his fellow passengers lucky that he doesn’t faint. If there’s one thing he hates more being at the center of attention, it’s being a burden— and fainting would only make him dead weight for others.

His phone buzzes.

A text from Pidge already? He opens it:

“Where should we meet?”

He smiles. “20:00 evening train.”

They continue their conversation from where they left off. Shiro’s so engrossed, entranced, enchanted, he almost misses his stop. Almost.

He doesn’t miss the sensation of people staring at him as he ducks to avoid the canopy of dangling handle rungs. In fact, he doesn’t notice it. Not since he started talking with Pidge.

Shiro steps off the train, looking forward to the evening commute.

**Author's Note:**

> For my fellow Americans who might be wondering how tall Shiro is, he's about 6'3".


End file.
